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2/19/2015

A fictional story
by
No Sweat

Lascaux, France, June, 1940

You couldn't see them unless they moved.
Five camouflaged German soldiers.
A reconnaissance patrol, fragments of the Blitzkrieg.
Each soldier owning a helmet woven with grasses coming from their location near the bank of the Vezere River.
Those helmets moving as queer nests with green and brown tentacles.
Come here, whispered a cave in the woods.
Caves do talk, don't they?
This cave was not so big. A hole in the ground. An old pine had fallen exposing its entrance.
In the blue heavens the Luftwaffe and their roar of so many planes were disappearing.
Then,for a moment it was suddenly quiet.
The Germans paused, surveying the countryside; so many yellow orchids, grasshoppers and black butterflies with their scarlet trim.
Though the sun warmed their helmets and gun barrels there was a slight current of a cool breeze waxing down from the northern slopes of the Pyrenees. With it was a clean and light smell of conifers and snow. Pairs of Alpine Choughs called loudly while entering nesting caves along a cliff's face. A minute later, a small and flitting bird moved across another cliff and disappeared into a crevice. Feeding on dandelion and thistle at the woodland's edge, four Citril Finch were confiding and persistent. The melodic song of the Rock Thrush was heard and a beautiful orange and blue male was spotted singing on a rock fence.
"I'm waiting," whispered the cave.
Finally, one of the patrol found it. Soon, the others came.
Footprints. Fresh. They appeared to be that of a man's and a boy.
The footprints lead only in.
The soldiers stood astonished. There was that innocent side of them that wanted to pretend they didn't see those footprints. If they found the man and the boy they would either have to shoot them or take them to an area where they would be trucked away and probably hanged.
But the cave was such a black temptress. And the German invaders were determined to impress upon the French that it was useless to resist.
"I don't like this," spoke sergeant Isselhardt.
Just beyond those footprints having once hidden the entrance there was a rock covered in fossils. On the other side of the rock there stood a paraffin lantern. Sergeant Isselhardt still had his small signal flashlight and he buttoned it to his left front shoulder so that it hung down and aimed where he was going so that he would be able to keep his hands free. "This way," he ordered to his men.
One by one the men climbed over the rock. Then, stopping, sergeant Isselhardt turned on his flashlight. "Sit down," he lowly spoke, lighting the lantern. Then he passed the lantern down to private Yoes at the end and began leading with his flashlight. The patrol made their way in a single file, so close that they were constantly touching each other.
"How's your light?" asked corporal Heitzmann, the second soldier in the line.
"I have never been in such darkness," spoke Goldshmidt, the soldier behind him with another flashlight. "There's a feeling of death here. Let's go back."
Sergeant Isselhardt felt the same but could not show it. "My own batteries are weak and I have no more," he said, overhearing the conversation. Stay close. No talking. We'll go back when I say we go back."
"When a man in a cave has his light goes out it means another man is with that man's woman," responded Yoes, grinning and carrying the lantern, causing the other soldiers to smile as well.
The first twenty meters inside the cave continued to slope steeply downward. The uncertain light of sergeant Isselhardt's signal light barely pierced the darkness.
And private Yoe's lantern cast eerie shadows.
The men's eyes finally adjusted and when they did they stood spellbound.
"Look! Unbelievable! uttered Yoes. "Can this be real? Are we in a dream?"
"Stay quiet!"  ordered sergeant Isselhardt.
Above the men all along the walls in hand-painted red, yellow, brown and black colors, were a striking series of primitive wall paintings; panels of bison, reindeer and fat belly horses; the animals looked frightened; they were so vivid and real as though they themselves were seeing, breathing, hurrying, some even swimming, some having shading and three dimensional qualities.
Further along on another wall, there was another panel of paintings depicting a great black bull hiding two cows. At the back of the panel there was a horse that seemed to be dashing towards the inmost depths of the gallery. On another wall, the focal point of the composition, there was a herd of small horses and a large black cow whose distinguishing feature was an unusual movement evocative of a fall.
Man the hunter.
A dream of no end.
Cave silence.
Nothing owns the quiet of a cave.
Except a grave.
"Coo."
"Coo."
The sound of a "coo" deep inside a cave?
A soft coo.
A lonely coo.
A coo of despair.
Somehow, each man knew that coo.
Only one bird in the world could make that exact sound, a pigeon.
But a pigeon does not dwell so deep in a cave, does it?
"Coo."
Once more the cave made that mourning sound.
And every few seconds again the silence was broken.
The soldiers walked toward the sound coming into another room. On the floor was the skull of an ibex covered in calcite. Beside it were two pack frames; Each frame held a wicker crate owning four small doors.  In a small space at the top of each door was the head of a pigeon. At the top of each crate was a brass nameplate: PAUL SION --- TOURCOING, FRANCE.
Not just any pigeons.
One glance into their brilliant, dark eyes told they were no accident.
They were beyond nature's touch, the art of one man.
The birds held calm, a careful intelligence at play; they were the shimmering, elite representatives of the fastest flying birds in the world, a blend of peace and wonder, beautiful homing pigeons bred to race; Something about them was almost human, as though they could speak.
Sergeant Isselhardt knew about racing pigeons, having been in many races. Oddly enough, so had corporal Heitzmann and private Yoes. Even though they had been away from their birds for some time the pigeons had remained in their dreams and they were always with them. In those dreams they would stand there in their lofts finding peace. They hated waking from those dreams as those dreams were almost perfect. They hated "the other awake world" they now dwelled in. And they hated what they knew were their given orders if they found any homing pigeons: KILL ALL HOMING PIGEONS ON THE SPOT NO QUESTINS ASKED! Even though they were Germans they knew off France's National Champion in racing pigeons, the world famous Paul Sion. No person could begin to match Sion's magic with pigeons. And to kill these magnificent racers, well, caused the soldiers a moment to pause.
"Rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat-tat!" opened up two machine guns hidden in the black somewhere recessed in a cleft.
All five Germans in the patrol fell dead.
Paul Sion and his son, Robert, climbed down, keeping their machine guns trained on the lifeless German soldiers. The eagle symbols on those German uniforms paled in strength compared tor the love that Paul Sion and his son owned for their pigeons."Get a couple of their guns," ordered Paul. "We've gotta get out of here -- quick!".

Bird Brains and Hemp Seed

2/19/2015

by
No Sweat

SCENE ONE
"I've been his neighbor since he moved up here. About fifteen years now."
"And why are you calling the Kentucky State Police?"
"Well, he's got some pigeons up there. And he's got trees planted all over the place. I know he plants them so the neighbors can't see what he's doing."
"And what is it that you think he is doing?"
"I don't think nothing. I KNOW what he is doing!"
"And what is that?"
"Well, my two grandsons were up there in his pigeon loft last week. He got to showing them the feed mixture he mixes together. He had corn and some other stuff---and guess what?"
"What?"
"He's got marijuana seeds up there, too. My boys said he had two fifty pound bags. Ain't that against the law? My guess, he's only using those pigeons as a front. He's making money off those seeds as sure as I'm talking to you on this phone!"
"You're sure he's got one hundred pounds of marijuana seeds?"
"Yessir. I saw this hot-line number for reporting drugs and I immediately called."
"What's this man's name and where does he live?"
"He's called, NO SWEAT. Says he's a writer ---but I know better. His pigeon loft is in the woods on a hill behind his house at 516 Poplar Street in Ravenna, Kentucky."
"Thank you for calling, Ma'am, we will look into this."
                ********************************************************************************************************
SCENE TWO
Later the same day of the phone call. Six squad cars race to the 516 Polar Street residence. The peaceful pigeon loft is surrounded by a ready-made Kentucky squat team composed of blue lights representing The Kentucky State Police, The Estill County Sheriff's Department and The Ravenna City Police (population 369).
"NO SWEAT, WE KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE! NO USE TRYING TO HIDE! GIVE UP! COME OUT OF THAT PIGEON LOFT WITH YOUR HANDS HIGH!"
"I'm coming out. Don't shoot!"
"We have a warrant to search your pigeon loft."
"For what? I know that I wrote an article saying that an old man was using pigeons to smuggle drugs in from the Caribbean but it was just fiction. Fiction is all I write."
"The lady that called in on you said you'd try to claim that you were a writer. This ain't about nothin' you say you wrote. This here is about one hundred pounds of marijuana seeds you are hiding up there in that pigeon loft."
"Marijuana seeds? Hiding?"
"ELROY! I FOUND 'EM! TWO BAGS! ONE HUNDRED POUNDS! JUST LIKE THE WOMAN SAID!"
"Officer, I have two bags of hemp seed in there. They weren't hidden. Its not marijuana seeds. I got them from Gary Stone in Cincinnati. He owns a trucking company. He gets the hemp seed out of Chicago. I use it as a trapping mixture for the birds."
"A what?"
"A trapping mixture. Hemp gets the pigeons into the loft quicker."
"ANY MORE BAGS UP THERE!"
"NONE THAT I CAN FIND!"
"BRING THOSE OUT AND KEEP SEARCHING!"
"I'm the one that actually found them, Elroy. My brother is trying to take credit."
"I don't care who found them. I'm just glad we got 'em. GOOD JOB! "
"Are you taking my feed?"
"Yes."
"Am I under arrest?"
"Not yet. But don't leave town. You'll be hearing from us."
"I'm telling you as nicely as I can, that feed is legal."
"No Sweat, do you think we are stupid? You have enough seeds there to supply all the marijuana growers on the eastern shore board."
"Elroy, which cruiser gets the seeds?"
"Put 'em in the Ravenna cruiser. Officer Ishmael can lock 'em up in their safe."

**************************************************************************************************************
SCENE THREE
No Sweat, dawn the next day. Richmond, Kentucky. No Sweat is sitting inside a small bathroom on an old commode. The seat of the commode is down. Close by, No Sweat is looking at an old man sitting in a bathtub trying to take a bath.
"Mr. Coy, your wife told me to come in here. I need your help. You're the best lawyer in this state."
"What is it?"
"The police raided my pigeon loft yesterday afternoon. They took one hundred pounds of hemp seed that I feed my pigeons. They are claiming that it is marijuana seeds and that I sell the seeds to growers. Hemp seed is grown in China. Then it is shipped to the United States. When it gets to California the DEA takes control of it. They bring it in off the ship in large conveyors and heat the seeds to the degree that it sterilizes the seeds so that they cannot sprout or re-produce. Once that is done the seeds are then sold to various distributors all over the United States. You can find hemp seeds in canary seed mixtures, parakeets seed mixtures, wild bird seed mixtures and all in kinds of places. All you need to do is read the back of any box of bird seed and you'll lively see that it has hemp seed in it. I get the seeds straight from Gary Stone. He and I are old friends. We played basketball together for Irvine. He now has pigeons and lives in Cincinnati. He is able to get the seeds straight out of Chicago and lets me have some every now and then.I use the hemp as a trapping mixture to get the birds to come into the loft. They love hemp seeds over any other seed that you can feed them. Tell me, what am I supposed to do? I've got all the paperwork showing where I got the seeds and where they came from."
"Did you get arrested?"
"No."
"Well then just sit back. Let's hope they bring up charges and arrest you. That will be the best day of your life. We'll sue them for all they are worth."
"Mr. Coy, my wife, Chesteeen, is a school principal. If they arrest me for marijuana she'll probably lose her job. You know how Estill county is. She's spent her whole life working hard to make it as a principal. The last thing we need is to see her fired because of this hemp seed thing."
"If they fire her that'll be just that more money we'll make. I hope they do it."
"I don't want it to come to that."
"No Sweat, the best thing for you to do is keep your mouth shut and not say a word. Get down on your knees and pray that you are arrested and that your wife is fired. That will be the best day of your life. I am advising you as your attorney not to say a word about this to to anyone."
***************************************************************************************************************
SCENE FOUR
Irvine, Kentucky. Three hours later after the meeting between Charles Coy and No Sweat. No Sweat now sits in front of Mike Moreland, prosecuting attorney for Estill County, Kentucky.
"Mike, yesterday the police raided my pigeon loft and confiscated two bags of hemp seed. They claim it is marijuana seeds and that I am selling the seeds to marijuana growers. I use the seeds to get my pigeons to come into the loft. They love them. I have all the paperwork here as to where the seeds actually come from. If you will read all of this you will see that what I have is legal. I went to Charles Coy about this and he told me to keep my mouth shut. He hopes that you will bring charges against me. He said that he would then sue you. I don't want it to come to that. You know how this place is. I am here to ask you to look into this matter and stop everything before it goes any further.
"No Sweat, I'll look into it today."
"Thank you."
*************************************************************************************************************
SCENE FIVE
Thirty years later. No Sweat resides in Richmond, Kentucky. No charges regarding the hemp seeds were ever brought forth. Not another word by anyone was ever spoken.
And the two fifty pound bags of hemp seeds were never returned.
No Sweat supposes they my yet still be locked up in the city of Ravenna's old safe.
He would ask for them back but is afraid that one of them may have sprouted.

As Innocent As a Dove

2/19/2015

A fictional story
by
No Sweat

           We were a million miles from home and it was raining purple.
           "Dad!" screamed my baby. A bolt of lightning had just smacked a palm sending her into near shock. Grabbing her, we ended our nightly stroll through the park and fled toward our condo. Now, the Gulf Stream seemed no longer my quiet old friend. Just south was the Palm Beach inlet and fifty miles east lay hundreds of small islands, the Bahamas. Some said they were South Americas main dumping grounds for illicit drugs.
           Out of the darkness, as we were running and after another bolt had sent us into high gear, something hit me on the head;
           What was it?
            A pigeon had collapsed from the dark heavens; it was stunned and I took it with us.
            As my wife and daughter were drying off in our room I began a thorough inspection of the pigeon. It was a racing homer; sleek, black velvet and owning the most brilliant, almost florescent orange eyes that I had ever seen; a plastic tube extending along its back was attached to it by way of a harness. The racer had one gold band on its right leg that read: "LULU."
           She's carrying medicine, I thought.
            I had read about doctors and hospitals using homing pigeons to transport emergency medicine. The pigeons could fly and cut across dense cities much quicker than any ambulance.
          I'll bet she was flying to some place in Miami. She must have gotten caught in that storm.
           "Daddy, what are you going to do with her?"
           "Well, I can't do much. She's like a lost soul. I don't know where she came from or where she was going. I believe she's carrying medicine that could be important to someone. Tonight, I'll give her a drink and let her rest. Come morning, I'll let her go. Hopefully, the medicine can still be used."
            My daughter, Nancy, smiled, bent over and wrapped her arms around my neck. Giving me a kiss she said, "Good night, daddy. I love you."
            Such innocence from big blue eyes and red hair.
            A daughter can do anything to a father's heart.
           "Night, doll," I responded. "Don't forget to say your prayers, especially for me."
           The next morning at 6:13 AM, just as a pink sun snuck above the ocean, I released Lulu. Before the release I had attached a note to her leg with the help of a rubber band.
           The pigeon flew but a hundred or so yards north, disappearing on the roof of a magnificent condo.
            That's not much of a homing pigeon, I thought.
            I was then glad that I had penned the rather boastful note to her leg.
            On the note I had left my Florida phone number and Kentucky address.
            That evening I was surprised to receive a certain phone call:
            "Is this THE great pigeon author and pigeon whisperer, 'NO SWEAT?' The man that found my racer, Lulu, and now brags, that in fact, he can breed the best racers in the world."
           "Well," I answered rather sheepishly, "I suppose all that could easily be true. I am rather gifted. Yes, you have the humble master, No Sweat."
            A hearty laugh responded back over the phone; one of those that continued for some time. Finally, the voice spoke again, "No Sweat, if you are as you proclaim, then you may be of use to me. Tonight, at exactly ten o'clock, I would like to meet with you at THE DAVENPORT. Do you know where it is at?"
           "Of course I do," I answered. Everyone on Singer Island knew where THE DAVENPORT was located. It only happened to take up some quarter mile of the finest real estate in the world; the most magnificent condo in all of Florida.
           Then I remembered, that's where Lulu had disappeared.
           "Good, good," spoke the voice with a lot of Kentucky strangely wrapped up in it. "Now remember this, as it is vitally important, when you meet my door man, wink with your left eye and say, 'ONE THOUSAND.' Have you got that?"
           "Yes," I responded. "ONE THOUSAND."
           "Correct. And when you come to my elevator operator you are to repeat this. And when you step out of the elevator you will meet my man in the hallway. Again, you are to wink and say, 'ONE THOUSAND.'  He will then bring you to me. Is all this perfectly clear?"
           "Yes," I said. "Wink. Left eye. ONE THOUSAND. ONE THOUSAND. ONE THOUSAND. Ten o'clock. The Davenport."
           "Correct. I'll see you soon."
           The phone clicked and I quit talking.
          Such a strange call.
           TI had lied big time. Nothing was perfectly clear. I didn't know why but for some mysterious reason I had agreed to meet a total stranger. About what, I wasn't sure. But I sensed that it had to do with pigeons.
           Two hours later, I was being escorted down a plush, cool hallway. Stopping at an ornate door the gold pigeon head knocker was lightly tapped one time.
           The door opened and there before me stood a small man, neatly attired with apparel reflective of the jazz era when Billie Holiday sang.
          I at once recognized him.
           I had been a writer for the pigeon journals all over the world and this man's face was as legendary as any on Mt. Rushmore's.In his day he had been the undisputed greatest racing pigeon flier ever in the history of the sport, having dominated it for over forty years.
           For a moment I was stunned.
          Not because I was meeting the true master but because the pigeon world had been saddened some ten years ago to learn of this man's death; he had drowned at sea in a fishing accident and his body had never been found.
           His hand quivered as he extended it to me. "No Sweat," he said, smiling, "do you know why I use the words, ONE THOUSAND?"
           "No," I responded, taking his hand and stepping into his domain.
           His smile lowered. "I keep one thousand racers at one thousand feet high," he announced.
           It dawned on me that I was in some great penthouse on the 100th floor.
           "Anyone who betrays my trust," informed the staunch figure, holding onto my hand and staring into me with his ice-blue eyes, "finds ot what it is to fall one thousand feet."
            I began to follow the man as he took me to his inner glass living quarters. Surrounding his glass walls was another large dome of special glass; the most palatal pigeon paradise ever dreamed. The entire set up was immaculately clean with two loft men clad in white busily attending to their duties. About every fifty feet there was a fountain and along the walls grew morning glories, bird of paradise and other plants of colorful nature.
           Above me, the stars were brilliant. The Milky Way was alive. And the moon's glow over the Gulf Stream, well, owned my soul.
           Surely, there had been a time millions of years ago when I lived in the sea.
           Stepping over to a huge screen he pressed a button. "That's the islands," he explained, pointing at the top, and here we are," he continued, showing me a steady light at the bottom. "This radar program is better than what the military has. I always know the weather and where any planes might be. Last evening was a freak storm. That's the only reason you intercepted Lulu. Do you see that light blinking there?"
           "Yes," I responded in awe; the blinking light was moving downward on the screen.
           "Well," he noted, looking at his watch on his wrist, "that's my first team. They will be here in exactly thirteen minutes and forty seven seconds."
           At exactly ten thirty, he opened a window, lowered a board and switched on a purple outside light. Seconds later, I remained quiet, observing 100 black velvet hens, all owning bright orange eyes enter through the window and go to their respective nests. Each hen was caught as each of them was carrying a plastic tube filled with white powder.
            Something inside of me said that white stuff wasn't pigeon bloom.
            "One hundred times two ounces is twelve and one half pounds per team," stated THE MASTER as he smiled. An hour later, another team returned. And on the hour each hour for three more hours another team returned. In all, five hundred black velvet hens had brought him sixty two and one half pounds. It had all gone off with precision clockwork.
            Before I was permitted to leave I had to take a vow, never to brag again about my abilities with racing pigeons or what I had seen.  It wasn't a hard matter. A thousand feet is a long way to fall.
            After that night, I decided to get rid of all my racing pigeons when I got back to Kentucky and raise nothing but the fattest fan tails on earth.
            Get back to innocence and a big slice of humble pie.

2011 Racing Pigeon Notes

2/19/2015

by
E. Lowell "Robbie" / "No Sweat" Robbins

     My loft partner, John Hayes, and I recently got back our fifth racer from a distance of nearly 600 miles. This turned out to be a disastrous toss for the 118 pigeons that I released; 83 of them were young birds and nine were solid whites. The rest were yearlings with one two year old in the group. That two year old came home this week. She is a blue bar splash hen, Sion. I did not train her any last year. But the year before she came back on the second day as a young bird from 200 miles with ten of her twelve tail feathers ripped out of her along with talon wounds along her back; the results of a hawk attack, most likely a Cooper's hawk. Because of her miraculous flight back from Chattanooga I named her, after that city. And it was Chattanooga that recently came home from the near 600 miles in 29 days, saturated in oil. To see and handle her would have you doubting that she could fly 100 yards, let alone the distance she achieved. John and I have been washing her daily with Dawn's Dish-washing detergent but it has been having little effect on her caked in Vaseline-like grime. Dawn's dish-washing detergent may have helped the birds with oil on them during the oil spill along the Gulf but it is not proving to be much for us. I am now also using some alcohol napkins soaked in alcohol which is helping a little, but like the Dawn's, not much. We are just hoping to do this enough times so that eventually the hen will come back to being close to her old self. She is undergoing great care and after this last ordeal will permanently be stocked. She has proved beyond all measure that she is quite special. I have the mindset to send a photo of her into the top pigeon magazine and have that picture of her in all her desultory-look be published on the front cover. To me, she could not look more beautiful as I feel that below that mired appearance is the heart of a champion. And that she truly is what our sport is all about.
     My intent with training young birds, etc. so hard the past several years has been to seek out exceptional racers, particularly at long distances. It is these distances of 600 miles and over that genuinely take over in showing just what kind of homing ability and instinct a pigeon owns. And it is this homing instinct that is the one thing that is more important for a great racer to own over all other qualities. Paul Sion created a reputation breeding down from exceptional long distance pigeons and so did my old friend, Charles Heitzman. Once you find truly great long distance pigeons you are on your way to success. Building physical qualities in racing pigeons is quite simple, a matter of genetics and one's understanding of what is recessive and dominant. And a mind's eye to understand aero dynamics.
     One of the interesting notes I have observed this year, that something which I have greatly concerned myself about, is that homing instinct. In this recent experiment with 118 pigeons, 83 of which were young birds, only five have returned. Those five have been four yearlings and one two year old, "Chattanooga." NONE of the young birds have thus far returned. And that may well have been expected by the sport as the sport just naturally assumes that the older birds are more mature, stronger and better trained.
     But that was actually NOT the case with this toss.
In truth, I had far more young birds than old birds in this toss; 83 of 118.   And this particular group of young birds were actually better conditioned; better physically, better almost everything. As far as strength was concerned and probable ability, these young birds should have easily dominated the old yearlings that I sent. And yet, they did not. Thus far, not even close.
     And what has this experiment said to me.
    It hints that in some way the homing instinct itself, over time, becomes stronger in a pigeon living at a place.
     This area of study is one that I have not seen employed by any scientist studying the homing instinct in pigeons, other birds or any animals.
     What causes this homing instinct to grow stronger as the bird matures is an area I now find interesting.
     Blessings.

Love Denied: A true story for Gene Yoes

2/19/2015

by No Sweat

Above the fringed palm fronds through their ever so slightly swaying serrations, there peering from in between twin belvedere towers with graceful arches patterned after the Villa Medici in Rome, perched as if some demure Notre Dame gargoyle, the distinct silhouette of a pigeon held steadfast looking from the heart of Palm Beach's legendary resort, The Breakers: Not just a place but a mood and a way of being. That pigeon peered into a blue sky painted perfect above the bluer still Gulf Stream. Blue the bird was. Blue in nature, I supposed, and near blue in color. Yes, indubitably a blue bar.

It was near noon as I gave a nod of approval to my cautious waiter standing so attentively for some sign of gesture. He was but a small cog in the commitment of the culinary staff to elevate guests' expectations relishing in the epicurean delights composed of the freshest ingredients delivered by impeccable service; assuredly, a certain rich and relaxed Mediterranean sophistication serving delectable dishes reminiscent of the French Riviera. My avocado fries were just about to be anointed in various chef-specialty sauces when I noticed that blue bar drop from his position, gracefully gliding down to land ever so near our glassed table and chairs onto the tan colored granite floor.

I sat there partially under a yellow umbrella surrounded by my red headed wife and daughter, son-in-law and two grandsons looking away from our table with its center piece of a silvery bucket of red roses and folded gold colored cloth napkins toward the immense Imari vases where the blue bar was maneuvering about, pecking here and there, searching for a crumb, inspecting anything as small as a grain of sand.

Then it began, the all but trivial flicking of jeweled fingers. Soon, other fingers at the same table. They were such annoyed fingers having to abandon their champagne. Shoo! You feathered disease bundle, those fingers decreed. Suddenly, another table followed suit. Fingers flicking more rapidly, evolving into slight airy backhands. You dastard! How dare you! Breathing our air! Finally, at a third table, there erupted small claps in attempts to evoke the disappearance of that impudent beggar.

How queer my life had been with pigeons. Catching them off the bridge that was my front yard. Slinking up rails not long after I had learned to walk, Heitzman, all but my father. Isselhardt, nearly a brother I had been blessed with the best in both racing and showing racing homers. I felt sorry for those pigeon-less people. You see, life's small affording of sugar which can be in the form of a pigeon is precious. Those people were but pastel dummies in their Ralph Polo shirts and straw hats and white Breakers' bathrobes issued at an additional $300 per guest of the resort.

What a beauty the blue bar was. Sparkling far more than the gold and silver adorning those dummies. His neck, vibrant in greens and blues almost as alluring as the eyes of my wife and daughter. You could see he was descended down from a racer. How wonderful, I considered, being one of Darwin's old champions, that from the wild rock dove evolved some racing homer and how that racing homer had dissolved back into the wild. He was a determined creature and though somewhat trusting he acknowledged death. I suppose though what I admired most about him was his denial of love. He handled it perfectly. Just like a writer should.

Then the blue bar flew off. My "Blue Bar of Zanzibar" landing back at his original position, the sun reflecting upon his two black bars. It entered my mind that nearly every racing homer fancier must own a place in their heart for such a bird. That for many fanciers it was that common pigeon that first intrigued their imagination and somehow got them started. In this, we owed that pigeon our respect. Less-wise, we spit on our memories.

The next day before sunrise I found myself alone by the sea. You realize how close you are between dream and reality when you observe darkness dissolve into day over the Gulf Stream. The ocean and sky were so very still. Slowly, the black of night faded to grey and that grey faded into blues and lavender and cream. At some point there became a faint line in the strange distance where the sea and sky divided; the pink-orange and yellow light appearing and the ocean from where you stand reflecting such a colored path back to the sun. I'll never know why but I thought of that blue bar.